


Why, Maitimo?

by Moringotho_in_Angamando



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Flight of the Noldor, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 15:24:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4710869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moringotho_in_Angamando/pseuds/Moringotho_in_Angamando
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story about the choices that Maedhros made and how others questioned those choices. Mostly features the house of Finwe but it may have other characters as well. Who knows? I am willing to take prompts by the way, whether for this story or others.<br/>NO SLASH intended, though you can read it as such if you want to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Feanaro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon's point of view on the desertion at Araman and the burning of the ships.

A/N: I am planning this to be a short, three-chapter story, though it may be longer or shorter, depending on life, inspiration, and the like. Feedback is always welcome! 

This chapter is written from the point of view of Fingon.

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I lay in the tent that I shared with father, trying to fall asleep. After all the things that happened I simply couldn’t.

I also could not catch up to the dreadful reality. The Trees are gone, forever. Grandfather is slain. Melkor, no Moringotho, is our enemy, and responsible for both. Uncle Feanáro has gone mad and fey. We are leaving Aman forever. We are going to Endore, we have no idea how we will live.

And perhaps the most terrible, the one realisation that made my cheeks burn in shame even in the darkness of the tent. We have followed Feanáro to slay our own kin, the Teleri. We were going to use the ships that we stole from them to get to Endore.

I shall have to speak to Maitimo about this, I thought before finally succumbing to sleep. Maitimo always knows what is going on, after all. He shall help me clear my mind.

Or so I thought. In the middle of the night, I was awakened by screams from the outside. As I opened my eyes, I registered Atar dashing out, tying the laces of his tunic on his way. I got up and clumsily dressed, then followed him.

I heard shouting and crying out from the side of the sea, and weaved my way through the tents towards the docks where we had left the Telerin ships. I was racing to see my father, but I still noticed that there seemed to be less tents than when I went to sleep last night. I must have been really tired, I thought.

I could have expected the Teleri come to attack us, or Feanáro lecturing Atar again on something. I could imagine nearly anything besides what I saw.

The docks besides which the ships have been left were empty, facing the dark cold waters. As I stared at the gaping emptiness before my feet, another shout rose amongst the crowd - I realised that at least half of the encampment was on their feet. 

“Look, there! Far, far away, on the horizon!” several people shouted. I looked, and saw something that made the blood go cold in my veins as sudden realisation dawned upon me. I saw fire on the horizon. 

Suddenly it all made sense: the missing ships, the strange emptiness in the camp, the shouts of the crowd. I looked back and looked upon our encampment. Indeed, about a quarter of the tents was missing. Including the three great tents with the rich emblem of the House of Feanáro.

“Why?” I whispered. “Why?” I screamed. Why had they done this, why have they left us here and left on the ships won by our blood? Why, Feanaro? Why, Maitimo?

I felt a hand grip my shoulder, and turned around to see Turukáno, his eyes searching my face in search of a conclusion different from the one that he himself had figured out. But the despair and anger in his eyes matched what I felt mine must have looked like. “Let us find Atar,” I said, hoping that maybe it was planned out, that Atar knew better.

We found him standing atop the middle dock, getting ready to speak to the people.

“Findekáno, Turukáno,” he said. “Go wake your brother and sister, and tell a few messengers to wake the rest of the people. I shall announce this to the people.” He finished his speech with a sigh.

My brother and I went silently to the tent of my other siblings, and then to that of our cousins, waking them up. On our way to the docks, Turukáno explained everything to them.

“Our dear half-cousins have abandoned us. They took the ships, and sailed across, and are burning them,” he said grimly, clenching his hands into fists. Artanis gasped, Findaráto and Angaráto made strangled sounds, the rest stared at us incomprehensibly.

“No, it must be a joke! It cannot be!” said Findaráto, several of the others nodding to his words.

“Father shall make a speech of it soon enough. We shall see then,” I promised.

After the speech, I lay in cold sweat, trying to comprehend the list of events that just grew: Feanáro has left without us. He burned the ships. We cannot follow him. Maitimo has left without a second word. We are doomed to return or to be outlaws in the middle of nowhere. 

When morning came, I was certain of only one thing: I would have to follow Maitimo and Feanáro, and take my vengeance. I had no idea what I would do, but they would pay!


	2. Elenwe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey through the Helcaraxe. I am assuming that at this would be the point before the middle, when the deaths would begin because of the time of exposure. Fingon's point of view again.

Eru, it was cold. Dark and cold. These were the only things that I have been able to register for a while. 

I did not know how many days, or months, or years it has been. How did the idea come to me anyways, or to Atar? How could we ever think that this could be possible?

There were only two things that forced me to go on them, to bow my head and tread on through the seemingly endless ice, pushing against the wind, not daring to hope for it to end. I felt dead inside, for nearly nothing remained in me even by then from the Noldo I had been not that long ago. 

One was the memories of the light, which let me remember who I was, stopping me from giving up together and making me lead my people onwards. I could remember riding through the woods of Oromë with Irisse and several of my half-cousins, or closing his eyes to listen to Maitimo’s smooth voice reciting old poems or talking about the history of our people or the arts and sciences that we practiced so much, or playing my harp and singing with Macalaurë and Artanis, and these memories were so clear that all of it could have been yesterday.

At the same time, these memories seemed to be very old, for I knew that they belonged to a life that was gone forever, and would remain only as memories. Though Endorë was supposed to have its own forests and rivers, mountains and plains, life would never be the same again. The Light was lost, and life would be a fight for survival, assuming that the Ice would ever end and we would live to reach the land. And there was the Enemy, a shadow on the back of the mind of every Noldo, that I felt would rob even the merriest feast of its gaiety, and the happiest day of its glory.

And the greatest obstacle of all, the other thing that kept me going: the betrayal of Feanáro and his followers. Even if we were to meet again, and the Enemy would somehow be defeated, and we would adjust to this new world in which we were destined to live, things between me and my half-uncle and cousins would never be the same again. 

Though the cold has chilled my nerves and mind, the anger was there, though it no longer consumed all of my mind. I could remember how Atar had said that there were but two options: to go and beg the pardon of the Valar, and remain under their protection, or to follow our so-called allies by the only way possible, by daring the terrible grinding ices of the Helcaraxë.

Blinded by anger as I was, I took the second choice without a hint of hesitation, as most of my kin. It had not occurred to most of us that we were entirely unprepared, and that maybe it was not worth it, that it was quite likely that none of us would make the journey.

I was not so sure of my decision now, but there was no turning back. The anger and lust for vengeance was ever persistent at the back of my mind, and it kept me going on. In the few moments that I could think clearly, I devised plans of how exactly I would greet Maitimo. Maybe punch him in that perfect face, until he would spit blood and beg for mercy, for forgiveness. Or toss him on the ground and kick him, and break his ribs. Or to turn away from him without a word of greeting, to make Maitimo feel the same hurt that I was currently experiencing. How could he, one who had been at times more of a brother to me than my own brothers, leave me to this, or to the alternative of begging at the Valar’s feet, and never seeing him again?

I looked forwards, to Atar and Artanis who were currently in the lead. I saw Artanis stumble, her cold legs refusing to serve her properly, and rushed over to support her, automatically, my brain not thinking, not feeling, my heart frozen. My hand met with Atar’s, who obviously had the same impulse. His eyes met mine, and for a minute the ice melted away in my heart, at seeing that radiant blue, soft and gentle. No words passed between us, none were needed, though that encounter made me remember that I was not alone, and that I had to become myself at some point. Being a leader was no longer going to be all glory, it was now destined to be hardship, and one that I would bear with the pride of my house.

Several minutes, or was it hours, after passing that place, I stopped in my tracks, hearing a scream, full of terrible anguish and horror, and then the gasping of the people.

Looking back, I strained my eyes to stare back over the deceiving Ice and saw something that made my heart drop to his feet for a moment. The place where Artanis had slipped was now dominated by a crowd of Noldor, looking to the side. And I saw that a chasm opened in the ice not four steps away, and the water shining coldly from the gap. But the worst part was that this segment of the people was the one led by Turukáno, who walked with his wife and daughter for all these leagues.

I opened his mouth, shouting out to my brother, but it was too late, for Turukáno, tossing aside his sword and dagger, dived into the water. He came up gasping, but went under again, his movements frantically fast. “What happened, in Eru’s name?!”

The question, shouted out by atar, was exactly what just went through my own mind. The answer came as whispers and cries through the crowd, and caused Artanis to stifle an audible wail of pain. “The Ice broke, and Elenwë and Itarildë went under.”

I turned my attention back, and saw my brother surface again, and push something onto the ice. Many hands went down to help him, and I saw and the recognized the golden hair on the small body of his daughter. Before I could come up with words to shout, my brother went back under.

Atar grabbed my hand, and pushed through the crowd. There was something akin to panic in his frantic motions as he pushed the crowd aside. “Let me through, let me see my son!”

Artanis grabbed on to my arm, the one that was not being pulled at by Atar, and together we pushed through. We reached the chasm just as Turukáno surfaced again. I could see his movements become more stiff as he attempted to go down again. Before he could go deep, Atar tightened his hold on my arm and reached out a hand, taking hold of my brother’s arm. I held on tight, trying hard not to fall to Atar and Turukáno’s certain death. 

My father, aided by the several Noldor who dared approach the water, pulled out my brother. Without hesitation, I took off my cloak and draped it over Turukáno’s shoulders. The parts of his skin that were visible from under his clothes were tinged with blue, and I was shocked at the cold when my fingers touched his cheek.

Turukáno collapsed into Atar’s arms, then suddenly pulled back, attempting to go back into the water. Atar restrained him until he broke down into sobs. 

“She is gone! I have failed, she is gone! Elenwë, my star-maiden*!” he muttered, he said, he shouted, breaking down in grief. Even as I stood there, my hand upon the back of my brother, shivering, though I knew not whether that was from terror or from the cold, I heard another scream, of horror, twenty or so paces away.

“I shall look,” I muttered. Walking over, I asked what happened, and got pointed fingers as an answer. Looking down, I saw that at one spot the Ice was thin enough to see through, and that under it was the most horrifying sight I had seen in my life.

It was Elenwë’s face. The once fair features were contorted in a silent scream of agony, the face blue and already losing its shape. The eyes were open and glassy, and I still shudder at the memory.

All that I could force myself to say was: “Do not let my brother see this, I beg you.”

My father announced to the people the news, making them as short and straightforward as possible. It was only when I became a leader centuries later, and had to tell my people similar news, that I realised how hard this must have been for him. 

From that day on, the Ice became more dangerous. More people fell, I knew not how many. The resolve of vengeance hardened in the hearts of all of us. When, or if, we would reach the shore, I was certain that the traitors who called themselves our kin would not recognize us.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so that was that! At first I was writing it in third person, then realised that the first chapter was written in third so I had to go back and edit. Please tell me if I messed up on that, or on anything else for that matter! Please review, and have a good day!
> 
> *I am assuming that Elenwe means star-maiden (El - star, en - of, we - ending of female names). Please tell me if you think otherwise, or if I should say something else at that point of the story.


	3. Arakano

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the journey over the Ice and the Battle of Lammoth, from Fingon's point of view.

We have lost nearly all hope. The Ice was endless, and many of our people were gone, fallen into chasms and gaps that opened and closed suddenly. We were getting the feeling that we were going in circles and that if we went on more people would die, and we would be just as far from our goal. But what choice had we but to go on?

We did not know whether it has been months or years or decades, but one thing was clear: if we were not to reach land soon we were going to die. All of us. There was nearly no supplies left, and it was harder to keep warm. Remembering some of the studies that we have done back in Valinor, though those were only theoretical, we realised that the longer we were fighting the cold without rest, the weaker our bodies grew, the less their resistance to Death.

We were trudging forward. I walked by Turukáno and Arakáno, carrying Itarildë in my arms. The children of Arafinwë walked in the back, save Findaráto who walked with my father in the front. I was about to hand Itarildë to one of my brothers when a shout of joy, the first since the Darkening, tore through the crowd. 

“Land! Land is in sight!” shouted the host. The front stopped until all of us were gathered around the same place, luckily void of any gaps. And my father’s great voice sounded over the crackling of the Ice and the shuffling of the Noldor.

“My people, we have trodden leagues uncounted through the Ice, and seen much death and grief on the way. Our suffering shall end soon, for we shall reach Endórë in a few days. Have courage, for a few days only remain, and then this ordeal shall be over, and the wide lands shall lie before us, and we shall…”

Before he could finish, the crowd broke into cheers. For the next two days, we walked with renewed vigour. The Ice was becoming more smooth, the gaps and chasms appearing with far lesser frequency. I walked up to my father on the end of the second day, and together we came to the edge of the Ice. For we could see a thin layer of snow, and under it solid earth.

Thus we were come to Endórë.

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The sounds of battle were overwhelming. The Orcs attacked so suddenly that we had no time to decide upon strategies or formations. My brothers and cousins rallied together, Fingolfin and Finrod at the front, and our people around us. Keeping together was harder as the battle grew more heated. Soon we were engaged in combat for our lives.

We had trained in Valinor, first as a sport and then, once Feanáro became more prejudiced against us and the tension grew, in all seriousness. We had fought at Alqualondë and, as dreadful as the memory is, our fighting was good. Yet on the long journey over the Ice we had not had the chance, nor will, to practice. Now our blades were more than a little clumsy, but the agility of our bodies and creativity of our strikes grew with every minute. 

This fight was very different from the one in Alqualondë. Two differences really stood out. First, we were not fighting our kin, we were fighting an enemy, someone whom we hated. There was no doubt, no remorse, as our swords rose and fell, and our slain enemies covered the ground at our feet. Second, this time we were not attacking but being attacked. We sought not to dominate, but to survive.

We were nearly losing. We were pushed back at the beginning. Though we did win at the end, it was achieved by a terrible price.

We were pushed back to the Ice, feeling that we were no match against the host of our enemies, when Arakáno raced forward. He was the tallest of us all, and we have never seen his eyes glow as they did then. It was no wonder that the Orcs were daunted by him as he rushed into their very throng, slashing at them with a ferocity we did not think possible, until he killed their very leader.

Our men then rushed on, encouraged by his stand, and pushed the Orcs back, pursuing them and killing all but a few, who ran away. 

When the sounds of battle died down we looked for Atar, waiting for orders and commands on what to do next. Yet we could not find him.

I looked around the battlefield, filled with slain bodies of the Orcs and of Elves, though luckily the second group was by far smaller. And then I saw a dark haired shape crouching on the ground, holding something.

I ran up to it, and father, for that was he, looked up at me, and in his eyes a saw a grief greater than I thought possible. Greater than at the Darkening, or the Kinslaying, or the betrayal, or even Elenwë’s death. For on his bloodstained lap he held Arakáno my brother. I saw that my brother’s eyes were as empty as Elenwë’s had been. Looking at his body, I saw the red of blood seeping through his tunic and clothes. We were attacked unawares, and most of us did not wear armour. 

“He is gone,” Atar whispered. He looked up at me, and this time in his eyes I saw something different from what had been there a minute ago, for beneath the grief was anger, wrath, the urge to destroy. 

“He will pay for this,” Atar growled.

It was only after an hour of marching through the lands that I realised that I did not know of whom he spoke - Feanáro or Moringotto.


	4. Hisilome, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Point of view of Fingolfin this time: the Nolofinweans begin to gather what had happened to their treacherous kin since they parted ways.

I sat on my throne in the great hall, thinking of how I got to be where I was now, coming up with a mental list of the events that had happened in the recent weeks - events that happened after we came to this accursed shore. What happened before I had thought of countless times, and it was no use thinking about it more, as nothing would change. My heart still stung at the memories - of the Darkness when the Light failed, of the fires far off that made me realize the true horror of what had happened, of the leagues upon leagues of cold, suffering, and death, of my son’s pale bloodied face and empty eyes… my other son’s face covered in tears and his cries of pain and promises of vengeance… No, I stopped myself. Focus on the present, do not reminisce on the past…

The past few weeks had been a pain. Once we burned the bodies of the Orcs and said our last farewells to our fallen warriors, we began our search for our kinsmen. Though, as Turukáno had said, they were hardly family to us, they who had left us alone, robbed us of all that we had put on the ships, and sailed away without us, burning the vessels and forcing us to either stay in Valinor forever, humiliated and despised by the Valar or to go across the Ice. I was beginning to think that the first option would have been a better choice when I stopped myself and focused on the present.

After a little thought, we figured that our so-called kin would have gone east, over the mountains. We grit our teeth and went up, searching for evidence of their passing and trying our best to ignore the cold, which Feanáro and his followers forced us into for a second time. We all ignored the fact that it was easier for us than for them, as they would have been completely clueless and we at least had their most recent footsteps and signs of camps to follow.

We passed over the mountains and saw a great plain, maybe twenty-five leagues, spread before us. We remembered yet the songs of our forefathers about their journey through Endórë. Though they had traveled in the same darkness and through the same lands, what we saw was quite different from what we imagined when listening to old tales and songs. While they had been described as vast plains with great green grasses waving in the wind, we saw that there were now trees, though not many. Moreover, in some places the grasses were dry of trampled, and the trees broken or burned. “Orcs,” Findaráto muttered. He had been interesting in studying these lands before the Darkening*, though after the battle he admitted to having a more theoretical than practical interest in some aspects of this world.

We marched through the plains for a day and a half, then started up on another mountain range, not as high this time. In the beginning of the third day, we came to the outskirts of the mountains and saw a great lake before us, and encampment on the northern side.

“We have found them then,” said my second-youngest - no, youngest now - son. He clenched his fists, and I could tell that he could not wait to take his revenge on our dear kin.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0

We did not want to intimidate our kin too much, and my host seemed quite blood-thirsty. Therefore we decided to send a messenger into their camp, with a letter from me. Luckily, some ink and pens, though in quite poor condition, survived the journey, though we had to tear a piece of parchment out of one of the books to have something to write on.

I tried to stop my hand from shaking, and wrote, in words that were formal but bordered on haughty, to my kin that we have come and had no supplies. We sent ten of our men to the encampment, keeping the rest several leagues away from the encampment. Three hours later, when we were planning to go there ourselves and find out why our men were not returning, the messengers finally came back and handed me a piece of parchment.

I studied it first, before reading the letter. It was of frustratingly good quality, but I noticed with a hint of sadistic pleasure that the seal was smudged, as if the hand of the stamper shook. I could not tell what the design was, but it was pretty obvious, and I was not planning to make a big deal out of my brother’s seal - he should pay attention and recompense to us, not the other way around.

Opening the letter, I saw two lines, penned with a Tengwar that looked unlike my brother’s. Though maybe it was just due to a different pen. It stated, in very formal words, though without any haughtiness, that we were welcome to the encampment in an hour. During that hour we pointedly did not look in the direction of the camp, so that none would say that we were worried about meeting our despicable family.

When we came to the encampment, it was suspiciously quiet. We were afraid that some surprise attack was planned when Irisse saw something on a post in the middle of the courtyard that caught her attention.

She came up to it boldly and read in a loud, clear voice: “People of Nolofinwe, take this encampment for your own. We owe you as much, and hope to speak to you in person as soon as you wish to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As this chapter is turning out quite a bit longer than I expected it to, I will cut it off here. It seems to be the most reasonable place. Part Two shall be uploaded as soon as I get a chance to work on it.
> 
> Notes:  
> * I am making Finrod so interested in Middle-earth because in the Unfinished Tales he was said to be very similar to Galadriel in his interest in Middle-earth. 
> 
> ** I calculated this based on the average walking speed of a person (3 miles per hour), the assumption that Elves would walk for 14 hours a day, not counting time to rest, and the distance from the Cirith Ninniach (west part of Mithrim, close to the Firth of Drengist) to the Mountains of Mithrim being 70 miles. Therefore the Noldor would walk around 50 miles on their first day, and start up the mountains in the middle of the second. Feel free to tell me if you have different calculations, I ask because of genuine interest!


	5. Hisilome Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of the previous chapter. still from the POV of Fingolfin… enjoy, and please tell me what you think. Thanks to all of you who have done so!

I sat on my throne, lost in thoughts, and ran my fingers over the carvings in its wood. As much as I wanted to despise my treacherous kin, I could not deny that it was beautiful. Even though the design formed a great star of Feanáro at the back, right above my head. Some of my warriors, who had been carpenters and artisans in Valinor, volunteered to scratch out the design, but I did not permit them. They worked on a new throne instead. As much as I disliked the design, it was still beautiful and to remove a part of it would not only be wasteful but also evil. Art is art, whomever it is made by.

I thought of the hands of my brother, so strong and beautiful. Hands that had held me, though reluctantly, in my youth. Hands that gripped the hammer so skillfully in the forge. Hands that held the sword aimed at my heart, so little and yet so long ago. I thought of how these same hands could do things terrible as the Kinslaying but things of great beauty, like the Silmarils, also. I could almost imagine them holding the carving knife and tracing out the designs which I now touched.

We had moved into this settlement a week and a half ago, after deciding on housing and storage and assigning responsibilities and tasks. It was a lot harder to run the settlement than I expected - all I ever had to do in Valinor was plan an occasional party or ceremony, with Atar or Feanáro or traditions doing a great part of the work for me. Now I had to plan the layout for a settlement, and found that I had no guidance. I did not know the best fishing places, or where to hunt, or how many men I could spare for exploration of these lands. I had managed to get myself a dreadful headache by the time that I was certain that not all of us would die in this upcoming month. 

I was on the verge of giving up altogether and telling my people to organize themselves when Findekáno came to me with a brilliant idea. He said that perhaps we should send a messenger to Feanáro’s camp, to inquire about their structure.

“I do not say that we beg for aid, Atar, but I propose that we state that it is their duty at the least to… share … their organization with us. After all, they would have had much more time to develop technologies and become acquainted with this strange new land.”

I looked at him in wonder. Why had the idea not occurred to me? 

I opened my mouth to agree when I found a complication. “But, Findekáno, who would go? None want to deal with them, you must remember how displeased the messengers were when we sent them over there. No one would want to go,” I shook my head. Findekáno has brilliant ideas, but he seems to be unable to grasp all the consequences of an action, and how others feel after his actions. As much as he tries to be a caring and wise person, he often fails at the task. “After all the hardship we have endured to get here, I cannot force them to do something they hate.”

He looked at me for a moment, thinking, but only for a moment. “But what if I go, Atar?” he asked. His eyes, dimmed at my refusal, light up again. “I am willing.”

“Findekáno, do you not see that it will convey the entirely wrong message? A prince coming to beg at the feet of those who had wronged him, begging for aid? It is their place, not ours. If anyone cannot go, it is you. I need you at my side.”

“Atar, for the good of our people I am willing to humble myself. Besides, I shall demand, not beg.”

It seemed to be the strongest argument, and finally I allowed him to go, with two people of his choosing to guard him. “Tell them that if they have the desire to make compensations, we shall arrange a time and meet. But you should probably word this better. Go to Artanis, she will take care of it*.”

An hour later, Findekáno mounted his horse and, flanked by Írissë and Findaráto, rode away to the other side of the lake.

As I passed my fingers over the carvings on the throne, trying to guess which parts of my plans I would have to change, I heard noise outside. I pulled myself out of my thoughts just in time to look at the doors as they opened before Irisse and Findaráto. Both looked rather shaken. 

“Where is Findekáno?” I asked. Both stared at me, as if they did not understand the question. Growing nervous by their strange mood, I said more sharply than I intended. “Írissë, where is your brother?” 

My nephew answered for her. “The news that we got at Feanáro’s camp had rather… distressed him. He said that he was going to take a walk through the woods to calm down a bit.” Lowering his voice so that only my daughter and I could hear, he added, “He sure needed it. He was in tears when we parted, he needs to compose himself before showing up.”

These answers were too veiled for my liking. I did participate in the courtly games of words quite a lot, but now was not the time! It was grave news we were talking about, especially if it made my eldest son cry.

Írissë looked at me then, and I saw determination in her eyes. She took a deep breath and then spoke, her voice frightening in its coldness and lack of emotion. “Upon their arrival in Middle-earth, Feanáro and his followers engaged in a battle. They won, but Feanáro was lost in that battle. One of the twins also died, at the ship-burning.” A mirthless smile ghosted over her lips at that point. Then it was gone as she continued, her voice more tight and even letting even less emotion come out.“After the battle, Moringotto deceived them in some way, and Nelyafinwë was taken captive. He has last been heard of fifteen years ago.**”

Findaráto continued, his voice quiet and sad. “Macalaurë leads them now. He mentioned that he has never attempted a rescue of any sort, and that if he would have prayed that Maitimo is dead, if he had anyone to pray to.”

I opened my mouth at the beginning of the news in utter shock. No, it could not be. Feanáro, the leader of this whole rebellion, the one who was always everywhere, organizing and planning, causing strife or joy everywhere he went. Not Nelyo, the one who had been so close to Findekáno that at times he seemed to be my son. Not Ambarussa, who had been so young and innocent and was just following his family. No. It could not be. 

After the shock, a sudden anger took over me. At Moringotto, for killing my brother. At Feanáro for dying because I could no longer have my revenge. At myself, for not foreseeing this possibility. At Findekáno, who was in some dark woods when he should have been at my side to comfort me. At Findaráto and Írissë for bringing me the terrible news. I knew that it was terrible and unreasonable, but I could do nothing with myself.

“Out. Everyone. Now,” I commanded, trying to keep my voice from shaking or being too loud. “You too, Findaráto, Írissë. We shall speak more after dinner. Make sure that these people do not speak to anyone of this, and do not speak yourselves. Understood?” After waiting for their nods, I continued. “Call the council to gather in three hours. I must tell the people this in a presentable way. Go.”

They left me alone with my thoughts, not at all cheerful. I allowed myself a few minutes of depression before going to prepare a speech for these news. The last thing I thought before my mask of formality and coldness slid back onto my face and into my mind was that Feanáro’s hands will never again forge a sword, or wield it, or create a gem, or carve a design on a polished piece of wood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: tell me what you thought!
> 
> *Galadriel is said to be of exceptional power in will, mind, and body in the Unfinished Tales. I quote that she was “a match for both the athletes and loremasters” of her people.  
> ** I have seen many versions on time ranges, especially at this point in the story. I am assuming that the journey over the Ice took a good twenty years, but the journey by sea only several months. Maedhros, by this timeline, would be captured two years after the Darkening, and after three years Morgoth would send the infamous parley that the Feanarions rejected. Feel free to disregard these numbers though, I am not concrete in this theory. I honestly have no idea and no certainty in any version, this layout just popped into my head during this chapter.


	6. Emotion and Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Point of view of Turgon because Toraach on fanfiction.net suggested it. Thanks! Please read and review!

I rode into the courtyard, fastened my horse to a post, and walked through the rain towards the house that my family and I occupied. The mud stuck to my boots, and the rain clung to my face and clothes, making me feel even more worn out and miserable than I was. 

It was two months since we settled here, and a little more than a month since we found out what evil had fallen upon Feanáro and his followers while we crossed the Helcaraxë. I still could not fully understand my feelings. There were too many of them, and some of them I hated or did not want to feel.

Was it wrong that I hated those who had died, robbing me of any chances of revenge? Or that a small part of me felt thankful that Moringotto got rid of my uncle for me, that I would not have to face the temptation of doing Eru knows what to him? That I was afraid of the Enemy more than before, for he had the power to destroy the Spirit of Fire? That I felt something close to… understanding of the surviving Feanárions? They, too, had lost a brother, after all, and also their father. Was it entirely wrong of some part of me feel that it is right that Nelyafinwe was captured, and likely to be suffering beyond imagining? That he deserved it? That it was thanks to him and to his brothers that Elenwe was dead?

I was afraid of myself, of the emotions that I felt. Was I supposed to sympathize with the traitors? Or be glad at the ill fortune that seemed to follow them throughout their journey? Or feel nothing at all, and pretend that they were not there, or that I did not know?

That fear led me to hide from myself, to focus on things that left little space for thoughts like that. I have helped my father perfect maps and mark areas that required further exploration and led some of the expeditions. I have figured out ways to make life here more pleasant, and to lessen the time that our people would be forced to work solely to survive. Yet at nights or during meals my thoughts would go back to the fear of my feelings and later to self-loathing.

My mission for the past week and a half had been wholly different from what I had done before. I have been searching for my elder, and now only, brother. Ever since he found out what happened to the Feanárions, he has been acting very strangely: going away into the woods for hours on end, being very quiet even with family, looking into space and not hearing what was going on around him… the change in him was shocking.

And nine days* ago, he disappeared. He left for the forest and did not return, though we waited for more than half a day. Then I could not sit still any longer and, with the fifteen Noldor that we could spare, rode out the woods that my brother loved so much. A messenger found us two days after we left on our journey, giving me a piece of parchment. On it was written in a hand that was definitely my brother’s: “I have gone in search of my cousin. Without finding him, I shall not return. I wish I could stay, but the thought that he suffers in the darkness of Angamando as we sit here and relax is more than I can bear. I hope that you can understand my choice, and carry on whatever the results of my endeavor shall prove to be. I wish the best of luck to my father, siblings, cousins, and my people, and hope that you will find it in your hearts to forgive, in time, the sons of Feanáro. With the greatest love, ~Findekáno Nolofinweon”**

We have focused our search on the north and the east of our area, which we have called Hísilomë for the misty and cold air of the mornings. Yet the weeks of search had given no results. We have found no sign of my brother. As much as I was loath to stop, we could not search forever, and the fifteen men and I were needed at the settlement. 

Usually, I would take off my boots and cloak and change to something more suitable for indoors. Today, some part of me was rebellious. That part felt some sort of joy as the mud from my boots and the water from my cloak dirtied the previously spotless floor. I came up to my father’s room and pulled the door open, letting it crash into the wall. Findaráto, who had been about to walk outside, closed the door gently and stood behind my back.

Atar showed no surprise at the clang of the door. Slowly, he rose his head from the maps that he had been studying. It angered me, for some reason, that he was so calm. That he did not seem to be angry at my dirty outside clothes. 

“Give me fifteen men to go after Findekáno,” I demanded. 

“Go where?” asked my father coldly.

“Wherever he is!” I said, after taking a breath that failed to calm me down. 

“Turukáno, you cannot expect me to let you go into Angamando when I have already lost my eldest to its darkness.”

“What do you mean? You are not going to stir a finger to help him, you will just let him go?” I could not believe it. My father was willing to let my brother go on this suicidal mission? How could he?

“He left nine days ago, we cannot catch up to him now. You will just kill yourself and whoever else chooses to go on this foolish quest with you.” How could be so calm, so calculating, when it was my brother that we were talking about?

“But… but he is your son! You cannot possibly do this!” It was a nightmare, this could not be my father!

“What do you suggest?” Suddenly my father’s voice was anguished, no longer calm and collected. “He left too long ago, we cannot stop him now! All we can do is hope that he regains reason and comes back before it is too late!” Then his voice turned into a whisper, and the sound was so broken, so full of anguish that I could not bear it. “We can do nothing, Turukáno. Even if we were to unite with Feanáro’s followers, there would not be enough of us to attack Angamando, to rescue your brother. All we can do is wait, and hope.”

I found myself slowly succumbing to his faultless logic. But how could it be? Could we really do nothing whatsoever? 

“I am sorry, Turukáno. He is lost to us, at least for the time being, and all we can do is continue on without him.”

Later, in my room, dressed in clean clothes and sitting before the fire, I found myself lost in thought. I have calmed down completely, and was horrified with what I have done. I have shouted at Atar, scaring Findaráto, who has insisted on bringing me hot tea all evening to calm my nerves. How could I have thought that we could do anything in this terrible situation?

And there was also the horrible realisation, and one that I could barely bear. I knew that I, and the rest of the Noldor too, was on the edge of my endurance. I have lost my wife and my brothers, we were alone and clueless in this strange Middle-earth. One more stroke of fate would break us.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: please tell me what you thought! I will be more than happy to take prompts or answer any questions about my writing.
> 
> *I am referring to the appendixes of Lord of the Rings, where it is mentioned that an Elvish week is six days long, making one and a half week amount to nine days.
> 
> ** This is the best I can do with the letter in my current somewhat disturbed state of mind. Any specific suggestions with it, or anything else, are welcome.


	7. Remembrance Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebrimbor finding out about his uncle Maedhros. Part Two will be from the point of view of one of his uncles, tell me which you want!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Point of view of Celebrimbor. I am assuming that he was born in Valinor, but is still very young at this point in time.  
> I know that this chapter doesn’t really focus that much on Maedhros, but bear with me, and please tell me if you would like any particular event to be written!

I woke up alone today. It was weird, given that I shared a room with Atar and Uncle Tyelkormo. Even if one of them would leave, the other would always stay until I would wake up. Or they would wake me up and hand me off to a tutor or one of my other uncles.

I pushed the covers off, shivering in the cold air and putting on my tunic and leggings. I also grabbed a cloak lined with fur. I put on my slippers and gloves and slipped out the door, heading for the room that Uncles Ambarussa and Carnistir shared. 

The door was locked, something that has never happened. Growing more nervous and nearly forgetting about the cold, I rushed down the hall to the great room that belonged to Uncle Makalaurë. The heavy door was not locked, to my relief, and I pushed it open. 

My uncle was not there. The bed was done sloppily and the closet open, with some of the clothes lying on the floor. It was obvious that the owner left in great haste, and the thought scared me. Makalaurë was the person who was calm and collected; the person who settled arguments between his brothers or other lords; the one who always seemed serious and informed about everything and everyone. Yet he ran out of the room, not bothering to do his bed or pick up the fallen clothes, or even to lock the door.

I looked around the room once more. This time, the writing desk, which stood in the corner, attracted my eye. I walked up to it, hoping that no one would look into the room. The feeling that I was not supposed to be doing this was overwhelming, but the curiosity in me was stronger than ever before. 

For on the desk lay something that I had never seen in Uncle’s possession. His desk was always a pile of papers, pens, and containers with ink, of the pale yellow and black that remained connected with politics in my mind for decades to come. It never had anything colorful on it. Never until now.

On the desk lay a portrait. It was of such good quality that it seemed to be alive, and made on very fine paper. I could tell that it was something made in the time before the world was dark and chaotic, when there was peace and order everywhere. I had seen no paints of such bright colors or paper of such fine quality for as long as I remembered myself.

I climbed on top of the chair and took a good look on the portrait. In the dim morning light that drifted into the room from the window, I could see that it depicted an Elf, and a rather unusual one.

The thing that stood out most was the hair. It was a color somewhere between copper and red, similar to that of Uncle Ambarussa. My uncle was the only person I knew of who had hair like that. I was shocked to see this picture, which was clearly not him.

The features were fine and noble, and I noted that they were fairer than any that I had ever seen. There was no trace of imperfection, the skin was smooth, and the ellon depicted looked like perfection itself. His eyes were gray, and even from the portrait held a queer light. They held mirth, but also seemed to pierce me from the paper, reading to the very depths of my soul.

I perched on the chair for several minutes, looking at the portrait in fascination, trying to take in every detail. I would have to find a way to ask my uncles about this without them finding out that I sneaked into Uncle Makalaurë’s room. I decided to memorize the name of the picture, and stared at the Tengwar.

Atar said that a child like me should know how to read, and that he would have taught me earlier if there has not been so much going on. We have covered all the letters by now, but it still took some time to recognize them. After several minutes of staring and concentration, I made out the writing:  
Nelyafinwe Maitimo Feanarion.

The name was not familiar. But Feanárion meant “son of Fëanor”, did it not? So was this Elf… my uncle?

I gazed at the picture again, trying and failing to remember anything to do with that person. Has he remained in the West perhaps? 

But even as I climbed off the chair and headed towards the door, I remembered. It was one of these times that I would later know to be similar to foresight, but opposite - sudden memories of great vividity, that took one back in time for several moments, though those seemed stretched out into however long the memory was.

I saw the green of leaves, lit by a bright light, which would have hurt my eyes under different circumstances. I was cradled in the arms of Atar, I somehow knew that the arms belonged to him. And then, I heard a voice, fair and young, yet one that I did not recognize, say words in Quenya, though I heard them as if through a mist, and could not catch their meaning. Atar’s chest trembled with laughter, and then his arms lifted me and suddenly I was held high, very high, outstretched on long strong arms and being circled around and around, feeling like I was flying.

For a moment the scene was filled with laughter, which included mine, and then I was cradled close to the chest of the Elf. He said my name so tenderly that I felt a warmth spread within me. 

And then I could feel the memory fading. With all the strength of my mind I attempted to keep there, but I could not. The last thing I saw was a strand of copper hair that was dangling down to my face, and the call of “Maitimo!” in a voice that doubtlessly belonged to Uncle Tyelkormo.

As I felt myself back in reality, leaning against the wall in Makalaure’s cold bedchamber, I realized that the call was still heard in the air. But now it was no longer filled with joy and beauty, but with agony, pain that I had not thought possible. The voice was Uncle Carnistir’s.

I ran outside to him, arriving at the threshold in a few minutes to find it raining. Uncle stood outside, in the rain, and looking towards the North. He has clearly just been shouting, but now he was silent. I walked closer to him and saw that he was crying, the tears silently rolling his red face. 

He turned towards me, and attempted to smile. I did not ask him what was the cause of his distress, but stood with him in a comfortable silence, looking towards the mountains far far away that I knew to contain the cause of all our evils.

After what seemed like half an hour, Uncle opened his mouth to speak. He was no longer crying, but the look in his eyes contained a grief so heartbreaking that I could not bear to look at them for long. He said then in a voice quiet and filled with sadness and memory:

“Tyelpe, once… you had an uncle. Uncle Maitimo... He was my eldest brother... like a father to me a lot of the time.”

It seemed as if he thought the words to be of vital importance, and chose them carefully.

“What happened to him?” I asked in a small voice, trying to say something befitting the situation.

My uncle looked at me for a long while, and then sighed, as if making hard choice. “He was… killed. It was years ago, soon after we came here. I cannot help but mourn for him every so often, and think of taking vengeance on the Enemy who did this to us.”

We stood there for some more time, and then Uncle turned to me. “Let us go back inside, supper must be ready now.”

We walked in slowly, and he handed me off almost immediately to my tutor. As Carnistir walked towards Atar, I heard the beginning of their conversation before my tutor pulled me away, which began with Carnistir’s sad words: 

“But why him? Why Maitimo?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me what you thought! Your reviews make my day, I swear by Eru. And you know how serious that is. Part Two will be posted whenever I get the chance, probably in 2-6 days (depending on Life).


	8. Remembrance Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An explanation of why Caranthir was so upset that particular day which sort of turned into a character study.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PoV of Caranthir, just because I felt like it. And because no one suggested anything so I get to torture you guys with my own ideas now… but please, tell me what you want to see because for me, coming up with an idea of what to write is a lot harder than to do the writing itself. This turned sort of into a character analysis, but I am going to blame that on the lack of suggestions… please tell me what you thought!

Speaking about Maitimo in front of Tyelpë was at the very least foolish of me. He had been young when our brother left, never to return, and we decided not to tell him. We pretended that our eldest brother never existed, and waited until the boy would grow up enough to bear the knowledge. But after he heard me call out Maitimo’s name, I had could not tell a direct lie.

As I spoke, I found that my nephew seemed unwilling to meet my eyes. Maybe it was because of the sadness and anger that filled my heart and doubtlessly were visible in them, but it seemed to me that Tyelpë was avoiding my eyes. As if he was hiding something.

However, I did not pay much heed to that. Valar, it still hurt, after all these years! I still could not live with myself, knowing that my brother was now in the power of the Dark Lord, dead or living in endless torment. I could not decide which was worse…

I thought long about my words before speaking. I could not lie to my nephew, yet I could not tell him about the true cruelty of this situation, and of the fact that it was our decision to keep Maitimo in captivity. He would not understand until later, and how could one so young grow up with the feeling that his father and uncles are horrible people?

But a small corner of my mind said that such an assumption would be true. That we were horrible beings, fallen from splendour and trying to make up something to live with ourselves. Telling ourselves that it was necessary, that it was right, that it could not be avoided… I tried to shut down that corner of my mind, but it was so hard… especially since I could not deny that it could very well be true.

That evening was a day of mourning. It was the anniversary of the horrible day on which Maitimo went on that dreadful parley, and of the day when Morgoth’s messengers came, bearing the terms which we had to reject. This was one of the two days of the year that we allowed ourselves to grieve and to reminisce on the past during the evening and the night. The other was the anniversary of Atar’s death.

Curufinwë and I came last into the room, just after Ambarussa. We closed the door and then Makalaurë lit a candle. From its flame Tyelkormo lighted his, and I lighted my candle from his. When every candle was lit from the elder brother, we stood in a circle in solemn silence, holding the candles in front of us. 

My eyes skimmed over my brothers, the four that still remained to me. Ambarussa stood on my left. On his left was Makalaurë, followed by Tyelkormo and me. We stood close enough to hear each others’ breaths, yet far enough to see the ones who stood right next to us. I looked at their faces, trying to comprehend how we all ended up here, in this new world. 

Makalaurë, who so unwillingly became our leader, was looking at the candle, his eyes unfocused and his thoughts far away. The kingship was a burden that he clearly hated to bear, though he was doing as well at it as could be expected. His eyes, once so full of joy or inspiration, were now sad and weary. There were lines of care on his face, in the places where the skin wrinkled when he was nervous or would be figuring out a solution to an issue. This was unfair, I thought. He was the one who used to be the gentlest and the most caring, though he was never weak. But he was better suited to peace and quiet, music and art…

Tyelkormo, his face in the shadow because of the way that he held the candle. As I looked at him, he shifted his hand ever so slightly, and parts of his face became eerily visible in the flickering light. I could see his eyes, still bright with anger and frustration. He never got over the pain of the loss, though he dealt with it by anger and aggression. He had become more rash, and often would go far away to hunt Orcs. On his right cheekbone was a scar from an Orcish blade that caught him on the side of the face several years ago.

At his left stood Curufinwë, so similar to Atar! Yet his face was more serious than Atar’s ever was, and in his eyes was a cold, calculating anger and malice. I could tell that he was thinking of Moringotho at that moment, though even as I looked his eyes became cold and guarded. Whatever he was thinking of he did not want even us to know of. The thought hurt, but I was rather used to it by now. Our brother was always planning nowadays, his mind being as sharp and calculating as ever, if not more so. His plans were motivated with a hatred that nothing could quench, and sometimes it hurt to look at him as he scribbled away, tearing holes in the parchment, working on some plan, doubtlessly thinking of how it would be one step closer to bringing revenge on our enemy.

On my right stood my youngest brother. His face was young and there was a hurt and innocent look in his eyes that made him look even younger. Ever since Ambarto’s death, he seemed lost and miserable. He looked so small and defenseless that I was forced to think, once again, that it had been a mistake to take him here. He should have stayed with Amil, and lived without this grief. Perhaps he would have been able to fool himself into believing that we were alive and hale and ruling great realms here. 

I could not help but wonder how long I would have these brothers with me, how long it would take for one of us to leave the circle. How long it would take for but one of us to stand with a candle in silence, thinking of times long gone, of what he had lost?

I forced my thoughts back into reality. Makalaurë looked at us, his eyes penetrating each of us for a second, though in a gentle way. He reminded me so much of Maitimo then that I had to close my eyes for a moment to regain my composure. I opened them when I heard his solemn voice, quiet yet clear:

“This day, twenty years ago, our brother was taken away from us by our Enemy. I shall not speak of the decisions that we had made, for we know of them, and nothing can be changed. I shall speak instead of the memories that we all share - of Maitimo and of the life that we had before all this turned so horribly wrong.”

Trust him to make beautiful and solemn wording out of everything… Makalaurë took a deep breath and spoke, telling us what he remembered of our brother:

“I was learning a song on my harp. It was well beyond my level of skill at the time, but I wanted to learn it. For him… for Maitimo. It was his favorite. I spent several hours at it, plucking the strings of the harp but unable to get anything good out of it after the first few notes. Finally, I gave up and cried, because it was the first time that I truly wanted something and failed at achieving it.  
And then he came into my room, and saw me crying by the harp, and noticed the sheet music entitled with his favorite song’s name. He told me then that I should never cry because of him, and that my happiness would always be more important to him than his own. I got in bed and he sat at the edge of it, singing a lullaby quietly until I was asleep. And he sat by me the next time that I attempted the piece, and I got through it with far less mistakes. And if I was glad to have gotten through it, he was positively shining with joy.”

Our brother then went silent. After a while Tyelkormo told his story, and then it was my turn and that of my younger brothers. By the time that Ambarussa’s voice died down, all of us had tears in our eyes, and there was a rare sentimentality even in the eyes of Curufinwë.

After a few minutes of silence, Tyelkormo spoke up. He had forced himself from memories to reality, something that he did too often. He had a tendency to get through the past and no longer think about it, which caused him to be unwise lots of the time. Though now, no one blamed him for taking himself from the pain of remembrance and going into the pain of reality.

“When shall we tell Tyelpë?” he asked. “He is growing up, and should be able to bear it soon.” Then, more quietly: “I feel wretched for hiding this from him. He has a right to know.”

Curufinwë looked at him thoughtfully. “It may be so. He is incredibly bright for his age, but the hardships of this world may be too much for him to bear. Wait another year at the least, I beg. Speaking too early may do more evil today than speaking too late.”

We stood for several more minutes while I had an inner debate with myself. Should I tell them of my weakness, that I was unable to keep quiet? What will they think of me? But if I do not, what harm may it bring?

Finally, I took a deep breath and stated, with a sigh: “He already knows.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to have three parts apparently!... Oh well.  
> I left the stories of the four remaining Feanarions unpublished. Please tell me if you want me to write them up, or if it is not worth the effort. Any and all feedback very much appreciated.


	9. Remembrance Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone deserves a bit of mental breakdown...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Point of View of Curufin. Sorry for the delay, I had quite a bit of schoolwork. Eighth grade Honors English is either no homework or hours upon hours of it. Anyways, enjoy, and please tell me what you thought!

I gaped at my brother. How, when, why? I stared at him, knowing that my other brothers were doing the same. Carnistir's face began to grow red from the nervousness and humiliation. The air in the room was full of tension as he took a shuddering breath and began his speech, talking rapidly as if he wanted to get it over with as soon as possible:

"I was very ... distraught today, as I am certain all of you were. I ... took a walk outside the encampment, through the scattered forest, remembering how it was... there, and how he would ride with us through the forests, teaching us how to hunt or trap, and how ... naïve and innocent we were. How unsuspecting of this whole mess!" he shuddered at that point, clenching his fists in anger. Then, quieter: "When I walked back in, I saw the mountain in the North, and it struck me once more how unfair it all is. How he is the one person who we need so desperately in our current situation." He stopped, taking a deep breath. Tears now stood in his eyes and I felt the temptation to succumb to sentiment as well. Instead, I kept my cool. I was nothing without it, nothing without my self-control and skepticism.

So all I did was ask, hoping that my voice didn't show any of the pain that I was feeling: "And what happened next?" 

At first, my reply was just silent gazes. Makalaurë, Carnistir, and Ambarussa looked hurt and shocked at my cold words, not comprehending how I could speak like that. "By sweet Yavanna*, Curufinwë! He is your brother! How can you speak like that? Do you not care for him?" asked Ambarussa helplessly. He looked even weaker and more hurt than usual, and for a moment I felt a pang of remorse for my words. 

But that pang was gone in a moment as I saw that Tyelkormo was looking at me with anger in his eyes. I found myself not knowing whether that anger was directed at me or Moringotho, but, either way, it served to fuel my own anger, which I kept buried somewhere in the depths of my mind. Every so often, it would resurface, and now was one of those cases.

I began quietly, but my volume rose towards the end of my short speech. "How dare you accuse me of not caring for Maitimo, Ambarussa? How dare you imply that I do not think of him every minute of every day for the past seventeen years?** But the past has passed, and there is nothing that we can do now. We must carry on! The past must be respected, I do not deny, but we cannot dote on it forever! We have the present to think about too. We all have a brother to mourn, but I also have a son to take care of, about which you, brother, seem to forget."

I calmed myself down with a few breaths, then finished, softly: "I care for Maitimo. But I care for Tyelperinquar too, and his safety is one of my primary concerns. I can do nothing for Maitimo, but I have a duty to Tyelpë, and I must know what he knows."

An awkward silence stood over the room as I got the last of my emotions under control and my brothers tried to come to terms with what I just said.

Finally, Carnistir picked up his tale. "I saw the mountain, and the grief hit me once more. I... I lost control over myself, I shouted out his name. I am certain that all of you," he cast a suspicious eye on me, "have felt that urge.

Tyelpë must have... heard me. I imagine he was pretty... lost, since all of you were up and about in preparation for today and he had no idea where to find any of you. For whatever reasons, he came out to me and asked who Maitimo was. I... I could not lie to him. He has that... that look that makes me feel that if I lie to him, I will do a great wrong. So I told him that Maitimo was," I frowned at the past tense, "our brother. That he passed away a long time ago, and that we all miss him dreadfully and want to take vengeance on the Enemy who did this to us."

"Nothing about the... circumstances of his capture? About the terrors that Moringotho must be inflicting upon him?" I inquired, perhaps more sharply than I should have.

"No, no. If I myself can barely bear the thoughts, he certainly doesn't deserve to have that upon his mind. He is but a child, after all."

I sighed in relief. "Good," was all that I managed to grunt. But my mind was overflowing with emotion. I was tearing apart. I wanted to shout at my brother for what a fool he was for calling out Maitimo's name. I wanted to embrace him for not telling Tyelpë too much. I wanted to ask him what he was doing out of the encampment, why he was alone in dangerous areas. 

My mind has not been so filled with emotion for years. Not since we rejected the parley that Moringotho sent to us, concerning our brother. I had shut myself down then, in preparation to deal with any more grief that would come our direction.Now, those walls were coming down. Suddenlymm the air seemed stifling. I felt myself losing control over my mind, wanting only escape from this room filled with sentimentality, grief, mourning... all I could feel at the moment was an utter despise for such emotions, even as they filled my own mind. I rushed out of the room, shutting the door behind me. I could hear the muttering of my brothers, but could not force myself to care. 

After several seconds, or minutes, or hours, I found myself outside. It was dark, but the air was not nearly as stifling here. I took a deep breath, relishing the familiar cold numbness that once again took over my mind. It was so much easier to bear than the pain of emotion. 

I leant against the wall and tried to relax or figure out what to do. Tyelpë knew, and we could not keep our secret for long. I would have to break it to him, but somehow keep his trust and and not scar him too deeply with that revelation. Valar, why did it have to be so hard?

After half an hour or so, I turned turned and went back inside. On the way back to the room where my brothers mourned for Maitimo, I passed by the chamber that Tyelkormo, Tyelpë, and I shared. I heard my son shuffling inside and changed my course. I opened the door at my right and stepped into the dark chamber.

I helped Tyelpë get to bed, an action that I have not done for years. Since the Darkening, I barely had time for my son. At least, that is what I have told myself. I could not help but remember how Maitimo laid me down in the same manner so many decades ago, staying by my bedside until I fell asleep to the sound of his tales or, later, thoughts about sciences and arts. 

Instead of going to the counsel, I stayed at my son's bedside for the rest of the evening, remembering. I found my usual façade of coldness collapsing as, for the first time in fifteen years, I let the tears fall from my eyes. Why did this have to happen to us? 

That night, before I stumbled to my own bed and fell asleep to my son's soft breathing several steps away, I mourned. Mourned for Father, who we lost to Death. For Maitimo, who we lost to something even worse. For my wife, who remained in the West. I have called her traitor, but now I could see the wisdom in her actions. For my half-cousins and even half-uncle, who remained in the West and were now lost to us. For the child that lay in the same room, who would never have a childhood. For the Light that we had lost, and the Darkness that we, unwillingly, contributed to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I am pretty certain that the Feanárions would not, at this point, mention the Valar with genuine reverence. However, I like to think that terms like this would be like "Oh my God" and "Jesus Christ" in our speech - phrases that are spoken by habit and often do not really have a meaning. Considering that "sweet Yavanna" would be something that Elves would say in the first place.  
> ** again, this calculation is based on my timeline. Maitimo would be captured in Year 2, and this would be Year 19. Next year, the forces of Fingolfin will come. Sorry for putting this and "Emotions and Fear" in the wrong order.  
> I think everyone deserves a mental breakdown every so often. This got a bit out of control, but I still hope it was enjoyable or at least readable. Please tell me what else you would like to see in this story!


End file.
